Sundays are always a haze for Amos.

Like always, the pews smell like cheap cleaning disinfectant—but it's been too long since the church has been cleaned to that degree. Pastor John goes on about loving thy neighbor and the room echoes with empty claps.

There are looks that he gets as he stares at the glass windows—at the crucified figure of Jesus—but they shift to your presence. A new face, and one that's notably late to service.

He can already hear the whispers. You've made an impression.